


(try) be kind to yourself

by no_username_requiered



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: 2nd person pov sex that only involves V getting to orgasm is my brand now, F/F, More Sexy Times, Smut, Soft Villanelle | Oksana Astankova, a dash of praise kink, also she is totally submitting, also tears and crying from v’s part, but not really, rewritten 2020-09-06, self imposed orgasm denial, self punishment, sexually and to the mortifying ordeal of being known, submissive villanelle, they are at it again, why am I always circling back to this niche that is v is not loving herself enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:47:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24952549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/no_username_requiered/pseuds/no_username_requiered
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 18
Kudos: 227





	(try) be kind to yourself

When your girlfriend comes home from another job done, you’re sitting on your bed. You’re going over a file you’re supposed to analyze for Carolyn and hand in as soon as possible. It’s probably one of the most boring ones you’ve had to read so far but it is what it is, you suppose. Better this than the threat of The Twelve.

As Villanelle enters, you can feel the tension in the air immediately. Something is wrong, your gut instinct tells you. Not because of her but with her. Another tell tale sign is her quietness. She’s only ever this quiet when something is bothering her to the point of not finding the vocabulary to articulate herself. Or when she tries to keep things from you. Or when she’s overwhelmed with emotions she doesn’t quite know how to process.

You want to get up but you know better, will wait for her to come to you. She vanishes into the bathroom first. Then the kitchen. Then, finally, she comes to bed. You see in her eyes then, that a storm is brewing and that she’s thinking, lost far in her mind. She’s changed out of her work clothes, now wearing pajama shorts and one of your old college sweatshirts.

Villanelle only sits next to you at first and then suddenly moves your paperwork away and straddles your lap and you can’t help but wrap her arms around her midriff as you start to kiss. 

It starts out like this: soft and lazy, a bit of tongue. She’s still absent, so you try and ground her with your kisses. Try to tell her that everything’s okay and that she’s safe and that you’ll listen if she wants or needs to tell you something. But your kisses develop a hunger of their own, searching for something to sate them. Kissing deeper, with more passion and more purpose. That seems to bring her back to you.

You only realize what you are doing, when your hand is wandering under the sweatshirt, groping at her breast and she lets out a quiet, desperate sound. Her body arches into your hand, begging for more, begging to be touched.

“So beautiful,” you say. Such a good girl, you want to add but you can’t praise her too much. Instead you’ll feed it to her in spoonfuls. You hear another quiet whimper coming from her, gone as quick as it existed. Her right hand grabs your left and guides it away from her hips, down down down. 

You understand what she wants, what she’s asking for, what she _needs_ from you so you move your left hand behind her back to steady her and push your right hand from her breast into her shorts. 

”This what you want?” You ask and she only nods, eyes screwed shut. Shutting you out, shutting the world out, shutting herself out. You want to tell her to look at you but you understand that she can’t. Not right now anyways.

The space between her underwear and shorts is hot and steamy and you don’t know how else to describe it. The heat is building up and you can tell that the lace is already ruined by how wet Villanelle is. With your index finger you explore the wetness, stroke over the fabric. It elicits a high pitched sound of her, her forehead dropping to your shoulder. You wonder if you’ll ever get used to the fact that you can make Villanelle react like this. To how you can make her soaking wet with one touch and endlessly making out. To what effects you have on the younger woman. How she is at your mercy, willingly. 

Probably not, you concede. You don’t really want to get used to it either. 

Villanelle pushes her hips down on your hand then just as you pull her closer into your body, deepening the kiss to a degree that shouldn’t be humanly possible. 

“Eve,” it’s almost begging. And without much contemplation, you push two fingers against her cunt over the lace underwear. Let your fingers wander to her clit. And push down. 

”What do you need?” You manage to ask. When she doesn’t answer, only presses her body down again and again you ask her again. “Soft or rough?”

You stop when she doesn’t give you an answer and she opens her eyes and there’s so much fear there. “No please, don’t stop.” You can hear the panic edging into her voice.

”Soft or rough, baby?” 

She closes her eyes again, averts her face. “Soft,” she whispers. “Please, Eve.”

And fuck, you’d do everything she asks you to do. You take the hand out of her pants and cup her face, push it slightly so it’s turned back to you, and you kiss her again. “Thank you for telling me, such a good girl.”

Your right hand drops from her face back into her shorts, takes its ministrations back up where it’s left off. Let one finger wander, barely touching her cunt over her underwear and then push down hard. Your thumb finds her clit again, and you push down on it, move your thumb in circular motions before pushing down on it again.

You listen to Villanelle’s sharp intake of air. She pushes down harder on your hand. Moans. Starts riding on your fingers, your hand, between underwear and silk shorts. You let her take what she needs while you move your left hand to hold her head. You push it down to your shoulder again, hold it there. Hold her body completely so she doesn’t have to focus on that.

”You’re doing so well, baby,” you tell her. The way her body moves to your touch drives you insane. You tell her how beautiful she is as her hips start rolling, deliberately slow. How beautiful and gorgeous and you want to roam your hands and touch her everywhere. You want to touch and tease and lick and bite. Instead, you let your fingers card through her hair, let your thumb trace her cheek every once in a while.

When Villanelle lifts her hips again, to grind down harder, you quickly push her underwear aside. And when your fingers, your hand, makes contact, skin to skin, she stills momentarily, gasps, before continuing her rhythm. Pushes harder, looking for the pressure. 

You’ve only experienced this kind of quiet from her a handful of times. This non-vocal part of her, seeking comfort and unconditional love. It’s unsettling every single time but you think you know what you’re doing. You just want to take care of her in ways she feels she needs to be taken care of for now. To take the control and be told how good she is. A few months ago she wouldn’t have allowed herself to be this vulnerable with anyone, most of all not with you.

You lift her head momentarily to kiss her. To tell her thank you for trusting me with you. Thank you for being mine.

Her head drops back to your shoulder, gasping, panting, and you need better access, can’t move, can’t give her what she’s seeking. So you spread your legs as wide as they allow, spreading her legs wider as well. Then your fingers move further into her pants and you push your middle finger into her. Slowly, deliberately. You know it’s not enough. So while she whines you push a second digit in, then immediately a third. It makes her gasp loudly, makes her moan. You feel your shoulder dampen and you know, you just know she’s crying and what you’re doing is right. Still, you ask her.

“You like that?” Is that okay? Being full of me? Take me, baby girl. Take all of me. You want to say so many things but you don’t. She whimpers, worked up in a way that doesn’t allow full sentences to form even if she wanted to. 

You want to see her face, you decide. Her beautiful beautiful face because as much as she won’t articulate herself right now, her face speaks volumes for itself. 

Her left arm is draped around your shoulder, holding herself tightly to your arm. Her other hand gropes at her own breast. Almost roughly so. You see how the nails are digging into the flesh, her knuckles whiter than the rest of her skin. You’ve seen it once before, her hurting herself while being in a deep emotional state.

You push her body upright with your left hand, as much as is possible with her holding onto you tight. Your hand lays flat above her own one, trying to ease the fingers off her body. You tell her to stop that and kiss her cheek then her mouth. You don’t say stop hurting yourself, stop pushing and digging. When she lets up, her hand moves to your hair, and you tell her that she’s a good girl. Kiss her again. Your hand moves back to hold her against you.

She starts riding your hand harder then, faster and harder and you let her. Let her use you to get herself off. Sometimes, she requests soft but slips into hard, slips into self-punishment immediately. So you don’t say anything about it when she does it the first time. Only observe. When she slows her hips down, presses her knees into the mattress and holds herself inches above your lap for a couple of seconds. Your hand is still in her silk shorts but by moving herself up, they glide from her hips, fall into your lap. You can see how drenched she really is now, dripping almost.

You don’t move either. You think you understand that she’s just trying to prolong the feeling of relief so you let her do. When she is about to lower herself back onto your lap, you pull her underwear down her thighs as well. She settles then and you push your fingers back into her, push against her clit with the heel of your hand every time she pushes down.

She becomes sloppy, quickly. Her thighs are shaking and you can still feel her silent tears streaming down her face onto your shirt. You want to ask her what she needs so she can cum, when she does it again. Lifts her body off from your hand, back arching, and she’s sobbing loudly. She holds herself longer this time, her thighs clenching around nothing, subconsciously chasing for the missing friction. The friction and the pressure. 

When she does it a third time, sobbing louder and biting down on your shoulder, you lift her off your lap and lay her on the bed. Her one arm is draped over her eyes, still not ready to face reality but you still lean in to kiss her, almost innocently, kiss her mouth and chin and nose her eyes one by one and then her cheeks and her mouth again. 

You want to ask her what’s wrong and why she is doing this to herself. Why she is— is she? Is she punishing herself? What she is doing it to herself for. 

For a split second you want to ask if she wants to stop but you know that it’ll be painful if you do so. She’s still sobbing, unable to lay still with how much she’s been denying herself. So you lay down next to her, pull her upper body close to you, her head finding space between your shoulder and shin, and you hold her while you push three digits into her throbbing cunt again. You kiss the crown of her head. Whisper that it’s all okay.

She whines, still not allowing herself to come and tries to push away weakly but you hold her close. You know that if you stop you’ll just feed into her punishment. It breaks your heart knowing she is fighting with herself when you’re right there beside her, ready to fight alongside her. Maybe she’s just overwhelmed with the intensity of everything. Maybe it’s both.

You tell her that she is a good girl, that she is allowed to have an orgasm. That you’re there for her. That you love her. That, Oksana, stop punishing yourself. That it’ll hurt the more she does it. That it’ll be borderline unbearable. That she is allowed to cry. That she’s allowed to come.

C’mon baby, you want to say. Let it all out.

Her sobs wreck her body harder at that but you don’t stop and she doesn’t stop rocking her hips now. You know her enough by now to know that this won’t be enough though, so you ask her if she can touch herself. She shakes her head, sobs, but reaches her hand down anyway. Her hand bumps into yours while she’s circling her clit and her movements quicken immediately. And then she stills. She freezes and you know it’s not for the same reason this time around. 

Her arms snake around you again and you feel her fingers gripping you tightly as you push her off the edge. You feel your hand get drenched, so much more liquid than usual and you’re unable to hold it in your hand. Your first thought is that this is hot. That it’s hot that Villanelle can do that and that she’s just did that and that you want to taste it and if she can do it again. That if she knows that she just did that and if she feels better now. Your second thought is fuck, I need to change the sheets.

Her moans are high and long but quiet as her hips still but you don’t stop pushing inside her, don’t stop pushing and prodding the soft texture inside her, don’t stop manipulating her clit. You need her to know that she can take as much as she wants. You just need her to know. 

After her second climax her hold loosens and you kiss her forehead before positioning yourself between her legs. You kiss her thighs, lick all the way up to her pussy. Clean her up. She’s so sensitive that she pushes you away first, unable to take any more stimulation. Then she grinds back into you when you lick at her other thigh again. You suck at her clit and push a finger into her again and she comes almost instantly for a third time. She whimpers your name as she comes down. Asks you to stop. 

You pull out your finger carefully and there is a whine at the loss of contact and then she is sobbing again and you pull her closer to your chest, hands in her hair and across her back. You kiss her collarbone above her shirt as you are laying both of you down on the bed. You let her cry, and grieve, and cry. 

Catharsis. 

“Do you love me, Eve?” She asks after the tears subside. 

“Yes.” You don’t have to think about that. Of course you do. 

She scoffs instead. “You shouldn’t. I’m a monster, designed to kill,” then quieter, an afterthought: “I ruined your life.”

You’ve had this conversation a handful of times between the bridge and now. And you don’t think that that’s true and you tell her as much. You tell her that you’ve chosen her. That you could’ve walked away and made it stop but you didn’t because it’s her you want. Wanted. Will always want. 

You lean in to kiss her, thinking about what to say to make her believe. The words aren’t there so you kiss her again as you fall asleep. 

The sheets can wait till tomorrow.

(You wake up in the middle of the night, realization hitting you that what you need to tell her can’t wait till morning. You wake her up, whisper her name and when her eyes flutter open you tell her this:

“I forgive you,” and then with love lacing you’re voice you add “you are allowed to be kind to yourself and forgive yourself as well.”)


End file.
